Dusk, Falling

The forest is dense with the tension
of silence, still and void of movement
not the slightest wind remotely shuffling
whatever foliage is left on the maples, oaks
beeches and poplars. But its interior remains
shadowy-dense with the green of needles
on the pines, the firs and the spruces. Its
hills, because this is a forested ravine, are
thick with yews, but the forest floor has
been relieved of its bracken for the chill
of freezing nights has consumed them. That
same icy cold that has sent its chill deep
within the accumulated humus and soil to
penetrate deeply, freezing the forest floor to
a penetrated, hard surface. Dusk enters early
these days seeming to linger but momentarily
before it is replaced with the deep, dark
atmosphere of night. And then there is the
unmistakably restive murmur of rustling
louder here, more muted over there, as
though to leave the impression that the
creatures of the forest are settling down to
an imperturbable rest, not embarked on the
timeless prowling that instinct has geared
them toward in pursuit of their survival.